


Solidarity

by RussianWitch



Category: Starship Troopers (1997)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Bondage, Consensual Non-Consent, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 16:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Johnny doesn't really have time to think if he's doing okay or not, others make time.





	Solidarity

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

He doesn't wake up screaming, but he doesn't sleep either. 

Doesn't sleep for long enough, he has to resort to pills, long enough for Ace to notice.  

Ace who's the only one who knows him by now—and the only one who actually has to balls to say something about it. Johnny ignores him, and in hindsight that proves a mistake, leaving Ace free to make a call he isn't supposed to make.  

That's how Johnny catches mandatory leave, him and Ace both, they get plucked off the rock they've been clearing and shipped off to Ticonderoga on the next supply-transport.  

Thankfully, Carmen isn't in charge of the crate, so once the niceties of boarding are over, Johnny can get into his assigned bunk and brood in peace. Estimate how many square kilometers are going to be cleared of bug tunnels by the time he gets back, how many casualties he's going to have to sign off on. It's gotten so back, there are standard form letters to send to parents, just fill in a name and you're good to go.  

Ace leaves him alone all the way to Ticonderoga, spends his time loafing with the ship's marine contingent, only reappearing once they dock. As far as Johnny is concerned, he might as well have stayed lost. 

He doesn't want to be on the space station, not when his men are still on the front lines, not with most the non-essential parts of the battle station taken offline and the rest haunted by memories of people long since dead.  

At least the quartermaster has booze for an MI hero—he's not been properly drunk in years, not since his first visit to the battle station, but oblivion looks pretty damn good. Ace grumbles, trying to distract him, but Johnny doesn't want to hear it, he shuts the door of his room in his face and ignores the knocking while twisting the cap off the bottle. 

He downs half of it in a few gulps, stretching out on an actual bed, with an actual mattress and pillow that feel too soft, and make his back hurt already. 

When the walls start closing in on him, after spending months in tents and troop transports, with the room feeling too large, and at the same time too damn small like a metal box, he stalks out to pace the corridors where at least there is room for his thoughts. 

It's the middle of the night by station time, and the few personnel who are patrolling, Johnny can easily avoid when he hears them coming. He stumbles through endless corridors, taking random stairs up and down, circling every one of the station's floors until he isn't even sure where he is. 

The bottle is actual glass, smooth and solid, it shatters into a million pieces when they grab him, bouncing across the metal walkway, the shards glittering in the harsh light of the lamp. The alcohol has slowed his reflexes, his head spinning from the booze, his thoughts muddled by the time he's slammed into a wall from behind, arms twisted behind his back and cuffed, a leather bit pressed into his mouth when he tries to scream.  

He kicks and bucks, but it's two against one, and his body isn't doing what he wants it to do like he's supposed to do. They drag him out of the corridor, gripping hard enough to bruise, forcing his arms high behind his back close to breaking point, grunting with exertion, into a small, badly lit room slamming Johnny chest first into the table in the middle of it. 

He doesn't know what the hell they want, or who the hell they are, even as he twists his head to see their faces as he's strapped down, they blur before his eyes, twisting into smooth masks as their bodies pinning him down while his legs are secured to the legs of the table and a broad belt is cinched in the small of his back securing his torso and arms.  

He howls in protest until he's out of breath, gasping for air around the gag, pulling at the restraints as best he can only stilling at the feel of a knife blade at the back of his neck. The knife saws through the webbing of his belt before cutting through the rest of his clothes with ease leaving him with only his boots and rags hanging around his ankles and wrists, shivering under the cold regard of his assailants and the cold station air.  

"Get on with it!" Someone orders sharply from the shadows, a third person, a man's voice Johnny thinks he should recognize but doesn't. It seems that it's the order the rest were waiting for. Two pairs of hands grope him at once, dig into his shoulders and the muscle of his back, squeeze his ass and spreading it open. 

"Damn, that looks tight!" Someone grunts, another voice Johnny thinks he should be recognizing, fingers on his ass pressing hard enough to leave bruises, "tightest ass I've felt in ages!" 

Johnny keeps on screaming, cursing around the gag, fighting the restraints until the edges cut his skin, he screams his throat raw when he feels fingers probe at his sphincter. 

"Get on with it!" The voice from the shadows orders again, and a thick finger pushes inside of him, sawing in and out until Johnny can't fight against the intrusion any longer—only for another finger to shove in, getting slicker with sweat and something else cold and slick that makes it difficult to fight the intrusion. 

He doesn't remember much after that, nothing except the rush of blood in his ears and the men around him cursing up a storm, when he can think again, there are more straps holding him down, and a painful, full feeling in his ass. It takes him a moment, to realize there is a dick up his ass, and the heavy weight on his back is the guy it's attached to. He's getting fucked, and there is nothing he can do to stop it, he's getting fucked—and, he isn't going to be fucked just once. 

Johnny still tries to fight rage firing him om, but tightening up on the thick dick breaking him open doesn't work for shit. The man on his back curses and fucks him harder twists his hips and drills even deeper into his gut, heavy balls swinging and slapping against Johnny's as the man grunts and leaves angry, stinging welts on his back with his nails, hands slipping on Johnny's sweaty skin.  

He isn't sure how long it takes for the man fucking him to come, hips stuttering, and hands squeezing Johnny's flesh even harder, come wet and hot, spilling deep inside of him, coating his guts. 

"Next," the voice from the shadows orders, while Johnny still has a half-hard dick up his ass, which is removed with a painful tug and sharp slap on Johnny's ass. 

They switch around behind him, talking in a language he can't seem to catch, leaving Johnny to lie there, his ass is gaping, open too wide for the muscle to tighten properly, waiting to be violated again. 

The second dick, he feels going in, every inch of it, the fat head too wide for his already tortured sphincter to fight against. The man stops, the widest point of the head spreading him open, his assailant groans as Johnny's ass twitches around him, like he's encouraging his own violation. Only then does the man push deeper, and Johnny's sphincter tightens on the shaft, throbbing as the dick slides deeper and deeper, torturously slow, so Johnny is forced to feel every inch sinking into him.  

"Fuck him hard," someone says, probably the guy who just fucked him, "so he'll feel it in the morning."  

The dick inside of him pulls out and slams back in driving all the air out of Johnny's lungs, the man leans over him, clamping a big hand on the back of Johnny's neck, his free hand slipping under Johnny's belly, wrapping around his—/hard/ dick.  

Fresh humiliation washes over him, douching the rage that's been keeping him fighting until that moment, shame saps his strength: he shouldn't be hard, shouldn't be /getting off/ on the violation, the rough hand stripping his dick just right to make him sob with want. He hasn't even felt his own hand in a dog's age, never mind someone else's, hadn't even thought about getting off— part of him still doesn't believe that faceless strangers are fucking his ass, leaving their marks on him with their hands and their teeth, that someone is ordering them to do it. 

The dick inside of him hits some spot that has him shaking and moaning into the gag, trying to thrust into the hand jerking his dick, hitting that spot over and over until he can't think, until his whole body is shaking and he's howling for something—he isn't even sure what, raging against everything that's pressing down on him until there is nothing left except the bonds and the dick driving into him.  

 Either sweat or tears get in his eyes and drip annoyingly down his face every time he tries to lift his head, they have him shaking his head and sobbing harder until he's dizzy from lack of air. 

Someone's fingers comb through Johnny's hair like he's supposed to get comfort from them like that's even possible. 

The man on his back fucks him harder, to Johnny it feels like the guy is trying to drill all the way through to his throat while playing with Johnny's dick until he can no longer stand it, until something twists low in his gut and he's crying out spilling jizz and more tears, snot clogging up his nose as he shakes apart still speared on the thick dick. 

He's still crying when the first man steps up to fuck him again, still crying when the guy comes and trades places with someone else, fucking Johnny's ass, squeezing every drop of come out of his dick, over and over again until Johnny's world narrows down to just his body, to the pain from his damaged wrists and ankles, from his raw ass and equally raw dick. The restraints turn into a comfort, holding him, cradling him just right to be fucked, to be jerked, used. 

He doesn't have to think, doesn't have to do anything but take it, whatever they want to do to him. He doesn't have to fight, comes the realization, doesn't have to be in control of anything, isn't _responsible_. 

He comes again, crying harder because he can because it doesn't matter what he does as long as he's captured and the relief of that is even more dizzying than alcohol after the long abstinence.  

Johnny doesn't know how long he spends there, all he knows is the pain and exhaustion consuming his body and emptiness filling his mind, thoughts scattering and draining away until all he can do is feel. 

 

"You've been so good, Johnny," someone says, someone with fingers in his hair, someone he recognizes. 

He isn't in the dark little room any longer, he isn't restrained, but his body feels wrecked, bruised and broken in a way he hasn't felt even after a week in a mecha-suit fighting non-stop. He rolls over, coming face to face with tall boots polished to a high gloss, tracing the legs up to... 

"Carl?!" His mouth is really too dry to speak, and he can still taste the leather of the gag. He wants a drink, cool water would be good but reclaimed water from his mecha-suit would do too, he can't help think of icebergs and the thought of rain makes him bite his lip to keep from moaning. 

"Drink," Carl offers, pulling away to get a full glass, leaving Johnny bereft until his hand returns. It does as Johnny gulps the cool water down and holds the glass out for more. 

He drinks until his belly is uncomfortably heavy and he can't taste the leather any longer. 

"What are you doing here?" He finally grunts. 

"You have a very dedicated sergeant, you know that?" Carl takes away his glass, pushing Johnny back onto his back, "he, was very specific regarding your—needs." 

"What the fuck did you do?" Johnny demands as if he doesn't already know as if his body isn't still hurting. 

"I did what I always do," Carl shrugs, and Johnny really looks at him for the first time since waking up, the way his cheekbones stick out like razors, the hollow eyes and ramrod straight back, even now where no one could be watching, the way he deliberately doesn't look Johnny in the eye. 

"Who?" He doesn't really want to know, and at the same time needs to hear it, needs Carl to tell him outright whom he chose. 

"Did you know Charles Zim works for me now?" Carl keeps petting him, the rhythm slow and steady, hypnotizing and possessive. 

"My former instructor, you mean?" Johnny didn't even know he _has_ a first name. Whatever else Zim is and has been, Johnny doesn't think he'll ever be able to think of him as anything else but the bastard instructor, not that he likes Zim any less for it. 

"Yes, your former instructor and your sergeant," Carl says, and it dawns on Johnny, horrifying and comforting at once who'd fucked him raw. He understands now, why the voices seemed familiar but not quite, why he got jumped by only two guys hand hadn't managed to fight them off, why Carl is there—"Did you take a turn?" He demands, his throat going tight with rage all over again. 

"No, that's not what I was there for," Carl looks him right in the eye for the first time since Johnny wakes up. 

"You just watched," Johnny growls, wanting to lash out, but feeling the same kind of dizziness that crippled him during the original assault. 

"You know better," Carl's fingers tighten in his hair, and yeah, Johnny knows better has known better since planet P what Carl can do if he feels like it. 

"Yeah, maybe," He rolls over, trapping the hand in his hair between his head and the pillow, Carl allows it without comment. 

"I'll stay until either Ace or Charlie wakes up, the drugs they took wore them out. There is a ship waiting to take me back to Earth, Charlie will stay for the remainder of your leave." It feels like he's being left with a babysitter, maybe two... 

"Why?" He demands, hating being told what he's going to be doing. 

"So you get what you need," Carl says, like it's completely obvious, "they are going to take you back to that room tonight, station time, and fuck you all over again. It's going to hurt even more, now that you're sore and tired, they are going to fuck you, hard, until you can't think any longer." His tone reminding Johnny of the times Carl had to explain algebra equations Johnny didn't get over and over again. 

"Carl—I need to go back, my men are—," whatever they think they are doing, Johnny doesn't have time for it, his men, his kids might be dying while he's here getting fucked... 

"Do you really think, I can afford to lose one of my star commanders?" Carl asks, or not Carl, but the intelligence officer, one of the bastard from high command who's forgotten that those units they were shuffling around were made up of living, breathing men. "They will break you down, until only pieces are left, then put you back together for me." 

"Why?! Who the fuck gave you the right?" The words don't make sense, the tone too gentle for nausea that turns Johnny's gut. If he had the strength, he'd get up and slug Carl but good, if his body didn't feel heavy as lead.  

"Because I want you to stay alive," Carl finally pulls his hand from under Johnny's head, cupping his cheek, "I want you to survive." 

Like he's sharing something shameful, like Johnny, or any officer doesn't want every last one of the soldiers under his command to survive, knowing he's going to fail, again and again, "so, I'm giving you this gift, Johnny: making you not be in charge." Carl leans down, dropping a close-mouthed kiss on Johnny's lips. 

He wants to argue, still wants to punch him, but the look on Carl's face, he knows it by now, knows it can't be argued with.  

"So, I don't get a say?" He can't help ask as if the night before hasn't made things clear. 

"That's the general idea: a vacation from decision making," Carl smiles, looking almost like Johnny remembers him. 

"Fuck you!" He rolls over to face the wall, away from Carl and his machinations. 

"Try to sleep, Johnny, you're going to need your strength," 

Johnny shudders, clutching at the sheets, his whole body aching, Carl's promise making his gut churn with terror or anticipation. 


End file.
